


Strange Interlude

by HermitLibrary_Archivist



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-26
Updated: 2008-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-20 10:49:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4784591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HermitLibrary_Archivist/pseuds/HermitLibrary_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>by Cami</p><p>Members of the crew are infected with a Federation-induced plague and are quarantined on an unihabited planet while the others search for a cure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strange Interlude

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Judith and Aralias, the archivists: This story was originally archived at [Hermit.org Blake's 7 Library](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Hermit_Library), which was closed due to maintenance costs and lack of time. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2015. We posted announcements about the move and emailed authors as we imported, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Hermit.org Blake's 7 Library collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hermitlibrary/profile). 
> 
> This work has been backdated to 26th of May 2008, which is the last date the Hermit.org archive was updated, not the date this fic was written. In some cases, fics can be dated more precisely by searching for the zine they were originally published in on [Fanlore](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Main_Page).
> 
> Prequel to "Companions" by Randym and Cami, which was published in Avon Calling 3.  A revised and expanded version of a story originally published in Aquatar #2. Also archived at the [Avon/Tarrant](http://tarrantnostra.com/at/home.htm/) Page.

The room had once been a neat and orderly laboratory, an immaculate sanctuary of glistening metallic equipment and smudge-free white countertops and cabinets. Now, however, the order and calm had been replaced by a sense of chaos. Doors and drawers hung open. Stoppered test tubes were strewn about in the manner of fallen soldiers, resting on their sides rather than standing at stalwart attention in their requisite racks. Papers littered most of the flat surfaces, including a scattering on the floor, appearing to have been dropped wherever impatient hands had released them.

 

 

In one corner of the jumbled laboratory a grim-faced figure sat hunched over a computer monitor, flicking through data screens at a speed that seemed almost superhuman. Nearby, a younger man was scrutinizing the contents of a large cooling unit. He removed and examined a series of labelled vials. Most were tossed carelessly aside; occasionally, he tucked one, with almost revered gentleness, into the soft-sided carryall he wore over one slim hip.

 

The two men were concentrating so intently on their respective tasks that the intrusion of a disembodied voice caused them both to start.

 

"Avon, Tarrant. We have Federation ships on the scanners. They will be in firing range in six point four minutes. Are you ready for teleport?"

 

Avon continued to focus on the computer while pressing a button on the bracelet wrapped about his left wrist. "Not quite yet. Cally, listen carefully. I want you, Dayna and Vila to put on isolation suits before we return."

 

"Isolation...? I'll see to it immediately."

 

"Wait," Tarrant said, cutting in before his shipmates could terminate the transmission. "Patch me through to Zen."

 

"Patch complete."

 

"Zen, maintain an all-points scan for Federation spacecraft, compute positions and trajectories, and plot an evasion course. Be prepared to execute on command."

 

+Confirmed.+

 

Tarrant released his communicator and looked at Avon. "We'll want to break orbit as soon as we're on board," he explained.

 

His shipmate scowled, drawing his brows together above his eyes until he appeared to have one unbroken line of hair instead of two distinct arches. "I have ears and a brain. I understood what you were doing without a schoolboy's lecture."

 

Though his face reddened to an embarrassed hue, Tarrant didn't cower under Avon's critical glare. "I think I've found everything related to the problem. What about you?"

 

Avon backed his chair away from the desk and stood. "I've transferred all of the primary files to a data crystal. Orac can retrieve any additional documents that we might need."

 

"Avon," Cally's voice interrupted, "we're ready to teleport."

 

"Then do it."

 

As soon as they materialized, Tarrant was on the move. Three long-legged strides took him to the transmitter that linked up to the flight deck. "Zen, execute evasion course."

 

+Confirmed.+ There was a slight lurch as the ship broke orbit and accelerated.

 

* * *

 

 

Three hours later, Zen reported all scanners clear.

 

"I'm glad we didn't have to fight," Dayna said, seesawing her stiffened shoulders up and down. "I can barely move in this bulky casing, let alone operate the weapons."

 

Vila abandoned his station, clawing at his isolation suit as he lumbered down the steps to the flight couch. "When can we get out of these things? I'm hot and itchy."

 

"What is their purpose?" Cally asked. "What did you and Tarrant find down there?"

 

"Everyone on Pel was dead or dying," Avon replied.

 

Tarrant slanted a concerned glance at Cally before adding, "They said that Federation craft blazed through the atmosphere two weeks ago, releasing a mist over the entire planet. Then people started to get sick."

 

"They were deliberately infected. Like Auron," Cally murmured, whitening behind her faceplate.

 

Dayna edged over to put a consoling arm around the other woman. "Isn't there anything we can do to help them? Perhaps find a cure?"

 

"Orac estimated that the few remaining survivors were beyond the treatment stage. Besides which, we have problems of our own to worry about."

 

"You've brought it back here," Vila whimpered. "You and Tarrant were exposed."

 

Cally swiveled about until she was facing Avon. "Is it contagious? Are you infected?"

 

Avon twirled a probe in his hand as he walked to the front of the flight deck. "That's something we need to find out. Cally, can you operate the diagnostic equipment while wearing that suit?"

 

The Auron was slow to answer, as if her mind was occupied elsewhere. "It will be awkward but possible. I'll go set up the equipment."

 

"Dayna and Vila, keep watch," Avon directed. "Contact me in medical if anything appears on the scanners. He glanced to where Tarrant was still studying readouts at his station. "Coming, Tarrant?"

 

"I'd feel more secure if I kept an eye on things here for a bit longer. I want to be certain those Federation ships aren't playing possum. Surely one of us is enough for Orac to diagnose."

 

"Now, Tarrant," Avon insisted, annoyed at having to repeat himself. Why was Tarrant always so difficult? Cally and the others always obeyed him without question.

 

* * *

 

 

Cally attached sensors to Avon's forehead and chest. "Perhaps the virus isn't communicable. If it was short-lived, it might have died out before you arrived."

 

"As the probable purpose behind this atrocity is to give the Federation unlimited access to mineral-rich Pel, the virus undoubtedly has a finite lifespan. However, less than two weeks is extremely unlikely."

 

Tarrant sat on the other examining couch, his long legs dangling over the side. His right hand pressed a square of gauze to the small wound on his left arm where Cally had drawn a blood sample. "Don't be such a pessimist. It's been over four hours since we were exposed and I feel fine."

 

*The information from their data files indicates that the incubation period for the disease is three to seven days,* Orac informed them. *Therefore, even if you were infected, symptoms would not yet be discernable.*

 

Avon bared his teeth in Tarrant's direction. "You were saying?"

 

"That Orac should stick to analyzing the samples we brought back and formulate a cure."

 

Cally adjusted Avon's couch so that he was half reclining. "Is that comfortable? This will take close to half an hour."

 

"I'm fine," he answered.

 

"Good." She activated the diagnostic scanner. "I'll get Tarrant hooked up while this is collecting data."

 

* * *

 

 

"I think I'm getting a rash," Vila grumbled, his hand scrabbling over the area of his suit above his ribcage. His eyes were trained on the glass of adrenaline and soma resting on the table in front of him. He'd poured it before realizing he had no way to drink it. Only specially packaged rations could be attached to the suit's dispenser, and there were no intoxicating beverages in the available menu. "And I can't even manage a proper scratch."

 

"Then take your suit off," Dayna suggested, her face dimpling.

 

Vila hastily grabbed up the glass and transferred it to the console behind him, where he wouldn't have to look at it and mourn its inaccessibility. "No thanks. I'd rather be itchy than dead. What's taking so long?"

 

"They've only been gone forty minutes. Now quit your fidgeting and worrying. Even if they are ill, Orac will take care of it. Remember how quickly it devised a cure for the Auron plague."

 

"Orac isn't infallible. Besides, it's not as if it's at risk. That scruffy piece of plastic can't be trusted unless it's a matter of self preservation."

 

Giggling, Dayna walked to the couch and plopped down beside the gloomy thief. "Do you want me to call back to medical and see how they're doing?"

 

"Would you? Avon would snarl at me if I bothered him, but you could get away with it."

 

Dayna reached over to activate the intercom channel. "Everything is clear up here. How are things there?"

 

"We're expecting a report momentarily," Cally answered. "I'll get back to you when we know anything."

 

Vila twisted his gloved fingers about each other, then crossed his ankles for good measure. Not that he was superstitious or anything...

 

* * *

 

 

Cally skimmed over the first page of the diagnostic report while the rest was still printing out. "According to this," she summarized, "neither of you have any evidence of the virus in your system."

 

Tarrant couldn't resist clapping Avon on the shoulder. "I told you to be optimistic."

 

"I thought you had urgent business on the flight deck."

 

"Dayna and Vila seem to be handling it. Is there anything else, Cally?"

 

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Although there is no active virus present, the computer doesn't rule out the possibility of it residing dormant in your bodies. The scanners do not have the capability of determining that."

 

"In other words," Avon said, looking pointedly at Tarrant, "infection hasn't been ruled out."

 

Cally nodded. "I'm afraid so."

 

"Still no problem." Tarrant refused to succumb to Avon's pessimism. "We'll just have Orac devise a treatment or vaccine or something. Then everyone can get out of those confining garments and we'll be on our merry way."

 

Avon turned to the flashing box. "Orac, have you completed your analysis of the pathogen?"

 

*I have. The virus does not match any known patterns. Since no record of its existence is available, no known cures or treatments exist either.*

 

"Are you saying you can't cure it?" For the first time, Tarrant felt real concern.

 

*I did not say that. I cannot understand how you humans continuously misinterpret the simplest of statements. I said that a cure does not exist at the present time. That does not preclude the development of one in the future. I am currently involved in further research on the subject.*

 

Tarrant placed his right hand on the computer's casing, in what would have been considered a threatening manner if Orac had been a flesh and blood entity. "How long will that take?"

 

*A shorter time if you would stop interrupting my efforts.*

 

Resisting the urge to drop a circuit wrench into Orac's innards, Tarrant spun about on his heel and pointed himself toward the door. "I'll be on the flight deck."

 

* * *

 

 

Two hours later, Orac had completed its research. The five members of the crew were congregated on the flight couch, listening to Avon and Cally recount Orac's report.

 

"Orac believes it can produce a serum to cure the infection if we can obtain the necessary raw materials," Cally explained. "But the closest source for the required extracts appears to be Jenestren."

 

Tarrant rose from his seat. "That's halfway across the galaxy. Shall I program in the course?"

 

"Not yet," Avon said with a wave of his hand. "Zen, what is the nearest uninhabited planet capable of supporting human life?"

 

+Chalize.+

 

"Set course for Chalize, standard by seven. What is the estimated flight time?"

 

+One point two hours.+

 

"Why are we going there?" Cally asked, surprised. "We need to get to Jenestren as quickly as possible."

 

"It would be impractical and uncomfortable for the three of you to live in isolation suits for the fifty-eight hour trip to Jenestren plus the additional two days Orac estimates it would need to process the serum."

 

"It certainly would," Vila agreed. "But you said Orac only promised a probable cure. I don't want to take any chances."

 

"You won't have to. Tarrant and I will stay on Chalize while the three of you go to Jenestren and gather the necessary materials. Orac can complete the development work during the return journey. Once we are on Chalize, Zen will be able to decontaminate the ship and it will be possible for you to remove the suits."

 

"But that's not safe for you and Tarrant," Dayna objected.

 

"I think the two of us can stay out of trouble for less than a week, especially since the planet is uninhabited."

 

Cally looked dubious. "What if you get sick?"

 

"If that is destined to happen, being on  **Liberator**  wouldn't change it. What is important is the safety of the ship. The three of you in those suits can't effectively operate the controls. The route to Jenestren crosses Federation space. You will need all of your dexterity if you are spotted by a patrol."

 

"You and Tarrant could handle the ship," Dayna pointed out.

 

"We might be ill. I will not risk  **Liberator**."

 

"Avon's right," Tarrant said. "Those suits are claustrophobic nightmares. I'd rather be vacationing planetside than watching the three of you go slowly crazy."

 

Dayna still wasn't convinced. "There is no need for us to wear the suits at all. Orac can cure five as easily as two."

 

"It is only a probable cure," Cally reminded her. "This is the best way. I'll pack a supply of food. Dayna, would you locate a portable habitat and any other equipment you think they might need?"

 

"Right away!"

 

* * *

 

 

Zen's voice filtered over the intercom into the teleport area. +Stationary orbit established around the planet Chalize.+

 

"Dayna and Vila, you will teleport down with us to help carry these supplies." Avon pointed to the cases cluttering the small room. "We can leave as soon Tarrant favors us with his presence."

 

"I'm right here." The pilot tripped down the steps, bags slung over either shoulder and a large metal trunk in his hands.

 

"We are only going for five or six days," Avon noted.

 

"That can feel like a year in a primitive environment," Tarrant countered. "You'll be glad for every item we've brought long before the ship returns."

 

Dayna stepped into the teleport area, a precarious stacking of boxes in her arms. "He's right, Avon. Now, hurry up. I want to get to Jenestren and back as quickly as possible. I don't like leaving you alone."

 

"We won't be alone," Tarrant said with a grin. "We'll have each other."

 

"It might be preferable alone," Avon muttered, not quite under his breath.

 

Vila was attempting to balance his load while trying to scratch his head through his suit. He stumbled ungracefully onto the platform several seconds after the others.

 

"Teleporting now." Cally worked the controls.

 

* * *

 

 

The foursome deposited their burdens on the ground and surveyed their surroundings. They were in a meadow that was bordered by a hardwood forest on three sides and a swift-running brook on the fourth. The sky was clear and bright.

 

"It's beautiful!" Dayna exclaimed. "Why isn't it settled?"

 

"Nothing of value," Tarrant replied. "And too far off the main space lanes to make it feasible, otherwise."

 

Vila wrinkled his nose. "It's too open. Give me a spaceship or a dome every time."

 

"Dayna, Vila," Cally's voice came over the bracelet communicators. "Are you ready to return?"

 

"You'd better get going," Avon said. "No sense wasting time."

 

Dayna quickly hugged Tarrant then Avon before either man had time to object. "Take care of yourselves."

 

"We will," Tarrant promised as his two shipmates faded from sight.

 

* * *

 

 

It was the morning of their seventh day on Chalize. Tarrant stood outside the tent, hands on his hips, watching the cloudless sky. " **Liberator** , where are you?" he asked softly. Shaking his head at the inane futility of his question, he turned his attention to the campsite. Everything was tidy and organized, reflecting the fastidious natures of a computer scientist and a Space Academy graduate.

 

A tall metal box rested on a portable table. Tarrant stuck a cup under the spigot that protruded from the nearest side of the box and pressed the release button. When nothing came out, he glared daggers at the inanimate object. After taking a moment to blot the puddle of sweat from his brow, he opened the lid and peered inside the reservoir. The water level was more than adequate for the machinery to be operational.

 

Which meant that the damned purifier was broken again.

 

Tarrant looked at the tent that provided shelter for him and Avon, shifted his gaze to a nearby tool kit, and decided on the latter. He unscrewed the side panel of the water purifier and began poking at the circuitry. The power connector had worked loose again. He tightened it and tried the spigot. Nothing.

 

Cursing his failure to inspect the unit before they left the ship, Tarrant stomped over to the tent. "Avon," he called, "the purifier is acting up again. Could you take a look at it?"

 

"You woke me up," a voice accused from inside.

 

"Well, it is morning." Tarrant kept his tone cheerful. "And a beautiful one at that. You wouldn't want to sleep the day away."

 

Avon emerged half a minute later, a blanket draped over his shoulders. The deadly glower he aimed at his shipmate was somewhat spoiled by his unusually ragged appearance. His tunic and trousers didn't match, his hair was swirling in every direction at once, and dark stubble peppered his sallow face.

 

Tarrant trailed after Avon as he headed for the recalcitrant machine. "You look like hell," the younger man noted.

 

Avon focused his attention on the purifier. "You are not exactly the picture of vid-advertisement perfection yourself."

 

"At least I keep cleaned up."

 

Ignoring the rebuke, Avon set to work. He selected the thinnest probe and recalibrated the delicate feeder circuitry. The water purifier still refused to work. Avon, showing none of the impatience that was grating at Tarrant, disconnected several wires, cleaned the terminals to which they had been attached, then reconnected them. His efforts went unrewarded.

 

Avon stared at the machine, while kneading his forehead as if it pained him. "I'm tired. I'll try again later."

 

"We need to drink plenty of fluids," Tarrant reminded him.

 

"So we do." Avon dipped a cup into the raw water supply in the reservoir tank. He put it to his lips and drained the contents. Picking up Tarrant's abandoned cup, he filled it and handed it to his shipmate.

 

Tarrant stared uncertainly at the water. A visual inspection suggested that it was clear and very appealing. But... "It could be contaminated with all manner of harmful organisms."

 

Already walking toward the tent, Avon paused and turned to face his companion. "Do you really think that matters at this point?"

 

"They'll be here," Tarrant insisted as his fellow exile disappeared from sight. "Soon."

 

Tarrant turned his cup over and poured the water onto the ground. He wasn't so thirsty that he was going to burden his body with any additional afflictions. The Federation virus was enough to combat.

 

Fortunately he had his morning routine to distract him from the parched condition of his mouth. He washed and applied a depilatory--though the smoothness of his jawline suggested he could have delayed that application for another few days--then gathered collecting tools in a carrysack. "I'll be away from camp," he called to the silent tent, "hunting for fresh food to supplement our supplies. I thought I'd make a soup." There was no reply. Nibbling on a survival bar, he headed out.

 

* * *

 

 

It was several hours later before Tarrant trudged back to their temporary home. He immediately noted that the access panel on the water purifier was again secured on the side. Licking his lips, he tried the machine and was gratified when water began flowing from the spigot. He gulped down one cup, then ingested a second more slowly in order to fully quench his thirst.

 

The moisture revived him. He found himself actually humming as he filled a basin with yet more water, which he used to clean the vegetables he'd gathered. There were some tubers, greens, and wild mushrooms, all of which he'd learned to identify during Academy survival classes. It was obvious that Chalize had been terraformed, probably during the second galactic expansion period when credits for space colonization were flowing through the coffers almost faster than they could be spent. When the atomic wars had decimated both the treasury and the excess population, many of the targeted planets had never been settled.

 

Tarrant soon had a pot of vegetation simmering over an open fire. He could have used the cooking unit they'd brought, but fuel for that was limited. Besides, there was something satisfying about calling up old skills, such as fire building, and discovering that he hadn't lost his touch. Deciding the soup appeared a bit thin, Tarrant added a few protein concentrates from their stores--breaking the bars into bite-size chunks--and gave the whole concoction a stir. Perhaps not a gourmet meal, but it should be tasty, nourishing and filling. He hoped.

 

"Soup will be ready in an hour," he announced in a loud voice, just in case Avon was awake and merely avoiding him.

 

For a while Tarrant sat watching the soup, occasionally yawning or rubbing at his eyes. Then he forced his body to move again, his hand bracing against his knee in order to regain his feet. With washing supplies and duffle bag in hand, and an empty water pack on his back, he traversed the worn path to the brook.

 

* * *

 

 

Avon waited until nature insisted that he move before crawling out of the tent. After using the portable waste unit that they'd tucked in some scrub growth downwind of the camp, he spread his arms wide and looked around. There was movement over by the brook. That had to be Tarrant. The object in question was too obvious and too noisy to be one of the local fauna.

 

Continuing to stretch and squirm to work the kinks out of his shoulders and back, Avon walked over to the cook fire. He lifted the lid of the pot and peeked dubiously at the contents. It looked edible enough, and he was hungry, but it was hard to think about food when his survival was at stake.

 

There was no getting around the fact that  **Liberator**  was late. Even allowing for evasion courses to elude Federation patrols, the ship should have been back. And since the onset of symptoms three days earlier, the ship's hasty return had become more urgent. A long delay, even if they had successfully prepared the serum, could prove fatal.

 

Avon stroked his abdomen, acknowledging the faint cramping that marked the disease's progress. Meanwhile, his mind turned inward to the horror that had greeted them on Pel. Only a few miserable wretches had still been alive and able to talk when he and Tarrant had arrived. Almost everywhere there were putrefying bodies of people who had died in their own vomit and excrement. The indignity of it had clawed at Avon's soul; he dreaded becoming a helpless, infirm invalid.

 

"You've scrubbed up. I approve."

 

Tarrant's unexpected return might have caused Avon to flinch, if his energy level hadn't been so depleted. He made a mental note to remember that the soft ground fostered stealth.

 

"I've done our laundry," Tarrant continued, ever the energetic cadet. "You'll have a clean outfit in a bit." He emptied the water bag into the purifier, then began pulling wet clothes from a sack.

 

Avon watched as the younger man draped the clothes over nearby bushes. He must have bathed himself as well, and looked impossibly young with his wet tangle of curls dripping onto his face and clothing. But the buoyant step of youth was gone, and the once bright blue eyes were clouded with rheum. One of the reasons that Avon had temporarily stopped fussing with his appearance was that he disliked seeing the same ravages staring back at him from the mirror.

 

Gingerly easing his body to the ground, Avon used a packing case to support his back and continued to observe Tarrant. The laundry disposed of, he turned his attention to the cooking pot. He stirred and spiced, then stirred again.

 

"Tarrant, you are wearing me out just watching all of your excess activities. We have food concentrates. There is no need for all of this domestic bliss."

 

"Soup's ready," Tarrant said. He'd gained a lot of practice at ignoring Avon's grumbling during their week on Chalize. "Shall I fetch you some?"

 

"No. Thank you."

 

The pilot looked up from ladling out a portion and grinned toothily. "Come on, Avon. Don't be difficult." With bowl in hand, he  _walked_  on his knees to where Avon sat and presented his offering. "Please. Fresh food is better for us than processed stuff. We have to keep up our strength."

 

Avon grudgingly accepted the bowl. "Keeping up my strength is exactly what  _I'm_  trying to do. You don't see me bustling about like a hyperactive servo-robot."

 

After dishing up a serving for himself, Tarrant sat cross-legged in the grass beside Avon. "I'm sorry I didn't find any wild onions," he said after his first sip. "I saw some the other day, but I couldn't remember where. I'll check near the rocky outcropping above the upper falls tomorrow. You should walk there with me. The falls are modest in size, but unmatched in beauty. At least to my way of thinking."

 

Tarrant spooned at his soup and looked at Avon, waiting it seemed for Avon to pick up the conversation. Avon didn't intend to oblige him. They weren't so much participating in a dialogue as offering individual soliloquies on life. Avon could no more understand Tarrant's determination to maintain a holiday camp-out atmosphere than Tarrant could understand Avon's resolve to remain grounded in reality.

 

"Of course  **Liberator** will probably be here by tomorrow." A hint of desperation was evident in Tarrant's voice. Avon's silence was wearing him down.

 

It was time to perform the coup de grace.

 

Avon put the bowl to his lips and drained the last of the broth. Carefully avoiding any acknowledgement of Tarrant, he set the bowl aside and crawled back to the tent.

 

The tent wasn't enough of a barrier to screen Tarrant's low mumbling. "Good soup, Tarrant," he muttered. "Thanks for making it. Don't worry, **Liberator**  and a cure will be along soon. We just need to keep our spirits up in the meantime."

 

Pulling the blanket up and over his ears, Avon tried to smother the faint stirring of guilt that Tarrant's forlorn monologue had aroused. He had never claimed to be a leader who would inspire confidence. Tarrant was more a fool than past absurdities would suggest if he thought otherwise.

 

* * *

 

 

Avon was up at dawn after a less than restful night. He scolded himself for allowing anticipation of the teleport chime to disturb his much needed rest. But some gut instinct had gnawed at him, telling him  **Liberator** was near.

 

 _Well, so much for gut instinct,_ he thought wryly. Only the facts merited serious consideration and they were growing steadily more desperate.

 

Cally knew the facts. She knew that from the onset of the illness they had only seven to ten days before the disease would engrave fatal damage on their vital organs. The fact that  **Liberator**  wasn't here was almost as ominous as their own dire circumstances. It might be that the remnants of Blake's rabble were going out with a whimper.

 

Ignoring the remains of Tarrant's soup, now cold and congealed above the charred remnants of the fire, Avon unwrapped a food bar and bit a chunk out of its tasteless thickness. He could almost understand Tarrant's preoccupation with food preparation and other chores. The boring pastoral solitude of Chalize left too much time for prophesying one's fate. Avon had long since exhausted the book tapes he had brought, and was not too proud to admit that neither his mind nor his body was up to more strenuous pursuits. Which left him with only his own gloomy thoughts for entertainment.

 

After washing down his meal with a cup of tepid water Avon glanced at the small tent that he and Tarrant shared. The young man had been sleeping solidly for almost twelve hours now. At dusk the evening before, Avon had found Tarrant curled on the ground asleep. He'd never fully wakened as Avon guided him gently to the sleeping mats in the tent. It was rather peaceful not to have him bouncing about, but a bit worrisome as well.

 

Avon was idly dusting the crumbs from his trousers and wondering whether he should check on Tarrant, when his fingers chanced to brush the **Liberator**  gun attached to his belt. Distracted, he pulled it free and stared at the unique design of the weapon. As he admired the workmanship, a disturbing thought crossed his mind. They had never been away from  **Liberator**  for so long an interval before, and it was probable that the energy pack only held a charge for a limited time. It was possible that he and Tarrant were entirely defenseless.

 

Deciding this merited his immediate attention, Avon rose and strode to the edge of their campsite. He pointed the weapon toward the open meadow and fired. The reassuring sizzle of the gun reverberated in the still air and tendrils of smoked lofted from the burnt grass.

 

Tarrant was out of the tent even as Avon turned to investigate what was making the clatter behind him. Despite the remnants of sleep visible on his face, he appeared to be fully alert, eyes carefully scanning the perimeter. Finding nothing threatening and noting Avon's calm demeanor, Tarrant charged up to within an arm's length of his shipmate.

 

"What were you firing at?" he demanded.

 

"I was conducting an experiment. We've never determined how long the energy packs hold a charge when away from the primary power source. Now we know it is for at least eight days."

 

"You might have warned me." Tarrant sounded exasperated. He sank heavily to the ground. His sweat-soaked clothes twisted about his angular frame like vines around a tree trunk, and two cherry fever spots had bloomed on his cheeks.

 

Avon found himself brushing a hand over his own face. Warm but not excessively so. He studied Tarrant critically. "How are you feeling?"

 

"Fine." Tarrant's reply was automatic.

 

Avon raised one skeptical eyebrow. "So I see."

 

Tarrant's answer to the sarcasm was to climb to his feet. And while he tried his best to disguise his weakness, there was a discernible wobble to his gait as he made his way to the drink dispenser. He gulped down three cups of water in quick succession, spilling a great deal on his already sodden tunic in the process.

 

"What are your plans for today?"

 

"After I finish rewiring the teleport section, I thought a leisurely bath, a goblet of fine wine and..."

 

"Very funny," Tarrant cut in. He broke open a ration pack and began spooning the unappetizing contents into his mouth. After three bites he dropped the spoon into the carton and deposited the packet in their trash receptacle. When his focus shifted back to Avon, his eyes were dull and devoid of their usual optimism. "It's not looking very good, is it?"

 

"Not very." And that was as reassuring as Avon could manage.

 

"Yes, well..." Tarrant scanned the camp with almost desperate intensity, "we still need to keep busy. We could inventory supplies."

 

"You do it. I'm going to bed." To Avon's annoyance Tarrant followed him into the tent.

 

"I need to talk to you," Tarrant said, hesitant.

 

Avon sighed impatiently, as he stripped off his clothing preparatory to bedding down. "Then talk. And while you're at it, you might want to get into something dry.

 

Tarrant glanced down at his tunic as if noticing the dampness for the first time. As his fingers worked at the buttons, he cleared his throat and spoke.

 

"Avon...Avon, when I heard the gunfire, I thought, well, I thought you were using the gun on yourself."

 

"Indeed."

 

Flustered but not quelled by Avon's cryptic response, Tarrant's jaw set in a familiar, stubborn line. "It wasn't an unlikely supposition. You've been depressed and withdrawn. And on Pel, viewing the bodies, I remember you said that you didn't want to die like that."

 

"Did I? Well, I wouldn't shoot myself..."

 

"That's..."

 

"...when a lethal injection would be quicker and completely painless."

 

"So you have been thinking about it?" Tarrant said, yanking his arms out of his shirt in a way that suggested extreme disapproval.

 

Avon stretched out and pulled the blanket up to his chin. "Go away. I want to sleep."

 

"I'm not going. I don't want you giving up.  **Liberator**  will return."

 

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. Even if they do, there is no guarantee that they will have a cure, or that it will work. I will not die like those poor creatures on Pel, mired in my own effusions."

 

Tarrant's voice was almost a growl as he countered, "Think rationally. There is no good way to die. You can't kill yourself. You can't give up as long as there is any hope."

 

"Can't I?" Avon answered bleakly. He thought of a cellar on Earth where he had learned that death was not the worst punishment that life had to offer.

 

"I know you don't care about yourself anymore," Tarrant said, almost as if he could read Avon's thoughts. "But think about the rest of us. People care about you." He paused before continuing in the manner of a defiant schoolboy, "I care about you."

 

Avon sat up, amused. "Surely you can come up with a more believable persuasion than that."

 

"Go on, laugh." Lightning bolts appeared to be streaking through Tarrant's blue eyes. "It's what I expected. Ridicule. That's why I've so carefully mirrored your scorn and indifference. No one in his right mind would offer himself for certain rejection."

 

"But then you never had much of a mind," Avon teased in what he hoped was a gentle manner. Tarrant resembled an abandoned waif, sitting there with his soul bared. Unable to help himself, Avon found his hand reaching out to caress the pilot's too warm face, tracing along the cheekbone then sweeping up to smooth at the damp hair above his ear.

 

"I...I..." Tarrant stammered, caught off guard by the intimate gesture.

 

Avon smiled to himself on seeing Tarrant's reaction. Seducing him might prove pleasant for the surprise value alone. It wasn't often that the younger man was rendered speechless and confused. He pursued the matter further, cupping Tarrant's face in both hands and whispering, "You're an attractive young scamp."

 

"Is this some kind of game, Avon?" Tarrant's voice trembled slightly.

 

"That would depend on what kind of game you're talking about." Avon leaned closer and brushed a kiss across the other man's lips.

 

Tarrant's eyes were locked with his when he pulled back. Lust and an unexpected trace of shyness mingled in their blue depths. That same hint of reserve was evident when Tarrant tentatively circled his arms around Avon, stopping short of a close embrace.

 

"I thought you would be a more passionate lover," Avon complained. He worked his hands over Tarrant's torso. "I'm not used to having to do all the work."

 

Rather more roughly than he intended, he crushed Tarrant to him, his hands sliding under the waistband of the younger man's trousers. As his fingers dug into flesh, Tarrant moaned, softly. "A-von."

 

"Take them off," Avon said, tugging at the trousers and undershorts that were denying him full access to Tarrant's smooth, firm buttocks.

 

"Can't," Tarrant whispered, pushing weakly at Avon's shoulders.

 

Of course he couldn't, not when he was pressed tightly against Avon's chest. Avon released his hold and slumped back, surprised to find his breath coming in shallow gasps. Was it the illness or had his detached amusement turned into something more intense? He preferred to think the former, even as his eyes locked impatiently on Tarrant's fumbled attempts to unfasten his belt. There was no sign of the pilot's normal grace and dexterity in the clumsy movements.

 

Avon didn't want to think about that, so he scooted behind Tarrant to where he could indulge in activities that wouldn't intrude on the disrobing process. The light filtering into the tent gave Tarrant's fair skin the translucent appearance of fine pearls. Just the faintest hint of pink glimmered in the porcelain paleness of his back. Avon stroked one finger over shoulder and upper arm, etching a discernible path in the dampness coating warm flesh. Tiny goosebumps erupted on either side of the trace and Tarrant gave a small shudder.

 

A smile curved across Avon's face, that such a delicate touch could provoke so strong a response. There was a lot to be said for such gratifying feedback, so he continued his stroking, this time with both hands, fingers spread and palms flat. Ridges of bone covered with sinewy muscle flowed beneath his fingers as he massaged the length of back. His hands drew closer together as they converged in the narrowness that marked Tarrant's waist. Such a slim span, in pleasing proportion to the shoulders above, despite the modest dimensions of the latter. And such a very long back. Avon skirted a route back up the spine, and it surely seemed as if Tarrant must have more vertebrae than average to account for its length.

 

"Avon." Just a whisper, but sufficient to call attention to the successful removal of Tarrant's clothes. A body as naked as Avon's own awaited his full attention.

 

He slipped his hands around to the front, his arms easily encircling the torso so that he could smooth over the hairless chest and hardening nipples. Tarrant slanted his head back, stretching his neck to where Avon could lean forward and nip at the delicate skin. There was a short gasp and a momentary flinch, then Tarrant relaxed, giving Avon tacit permission to continue.

 

It was rather reckless of Tarrant to leave himself so exposed, Avon thought. It wasn't as if they were habitual lovers or even that any affection had passed between them before this. Perhaps a lesson was in order.

 

Avon twined his fingers together, firming his hold and ably imprisoning Tarrant's arms against his sides. Then he opened his mouth and indulged in a firmer bite, just stopping short of breaking the skin.

 

Tarrant moaned, but it sounded more like approval than an indication of pain, so Avon closed his teeth over flesh twice more. Then he sucked harshly at what must already be a tender spot, raising marks he was sure, branding Tarrant as fiercely as the fever reddening his cheeks.

 

He might have continued indefinitely, ravaging Tarrant's neck until not a speck of unmarred skin remained, but a weakness was tugging at him. A glaze of gray passed over his vision as a cloud might dull the brightness of the sun. Avon had to pause and take two slow breaths before his sight cleared. His body was going to dictate the pattern of his seduction whether he liked it or not.

 

Reluctantly and gently, Avon eased both himself and Tarrant back onto the mats, until they were on their sides facing each other. He freed Tarrant's arms in the process. Long fingers scrabbled over him in turn, as if the pent-up frustrations of immobility were bursting forth in the form of a frantic, feral attack. It wasn't an unpleasant sensation to have the tips of fingers and short nails digging into his skin: arms, back, buttocks and thighs. Avon was sure an etching of thin red streaks crisscrossed over half his body before Tarrant slowed to a more gentle pace.

 

Then their mouths met; tongues, lips and teeth alternately contacting, lunging forth, pulling back. It wasn't quite tender but neither was it violent. On consideration, Avon decided it was exactly what he would have expected if he had ever considered sharing such activities with Tarrant. There was a sense of challenge and wild abandon coupled with subtle passion and a hint of instant familiarity. As if Tarrant were possessing him with each flick of tongue and smothering of lips.

 

Unnerved, Avon rested back to regroup. Tarrant's sweaty head fell against his chest and that served to heighten Avon's sudden terror. It was so very intimate to have his obviously ill shipmate falling onto him in an open display of vulnerability and trust. Such trust didn't come without return obligations.

 

 _It's time_ , Avon resolved,  _to bring this exercise to its natural conclusion_. He'd been aware that his cock was rigid and ready for some minutes. A quick glance confirmed that Tarrant was equally priapic. So it was just a matter of schematics.

 

Conserving as much energy as possible, Avon set about rearranging Tarrant's long body. He flipped him onto his back and placed his arms along either side. Tarrant seemed aware but not entirely alert during the process, his blue eyes full of the same trusting conviction that had permeated his body language.

 

Avon found himself uncharacteristically saying, "It will be all right." That earned him a smile of vast proportions. Which in turn prompted him to resort to harsher tones. "Now if you'll just follow my lead."

 

With that, he layered himself on top of Tarrant and began rubbing his penis into the other man's hip, massaging Tarrant's erection in turn at the same time. They were lathered in sweat, allowing slippery body parts to glide against each other without a trace of friction. It was not without a certain adolescent awkwardness, but that didn't appear to be limiting either of their pleasure.

 

As Avon found his breath shortening, his balls tightening, his entire groin aching with need, there were indications that Tarrant was also peaking. A fresh explosion of sweat had broken out on the younger man's forehead, and his body was straining as if to suggest that it wanted to ram its way through Avon's solidity.

 

There was one moment when Avon thought he would burst if he didn't orgasm, then he was coming in weak and shattered gasps of exhaustion. He had just barely finished when a fresh bath spurted into the hollow of his hips. Calling on reserves he didn't know he had, Avon continued to undulate against Tarrant until the other man's cock went flaccid. Fatigued and bathed in a mix of sweat and semen, they fell apart, neither speaking nor touching.

 

***

 

 

Still more asleep than awake, Avon's nose twitched and his face wrinkled. For several seconds his body tossed about trying to banish the irritation that had disturbed his rest. When no position offered relief, he was forced awake. Avon rubbed away the crust that covered his eyes and blinked them open.

 

A sour smell permeated the stagnant air in the tent. Avon glanced around, searching for its source. Nothing was apparent while he was limited to what he could see from flat on his back, so he reluctantly edged up on one elbow. Using Tarrant's body as support, he propped himself higher and glanced around. Sometime while Avon had slept, Tarrant had retched and now lay with his cheek partially resting in the noxious puddle.

 

It could have been worse, Avon supposed. The vomit might have ended up all over his own skin and sleep mat. He tried to shake the young man awake.

 

Tarrant whimpered and rolled onto his back. "Too...hot," he moaned. "Mother. Where..."

 

"I'm not your mother," Avon protested. But he set about cleaning the mess, nonetheless.

 

An hour later everything was tidy and the tent flap tied back to allow a fresh breeze to pass through. Avon was miserable enough to feel sorry for himself but since Tarrant was obviously worse, there was little time for self pity. He sponged at Tarrant's burning skin, trying to contain the fever that raged through his companion's body.

 

As the hours passed, Avon drifted in a timeless sea of discomfort. Was it nine days since  **Liberator**  had deposited them here or ten? Caring for Tarrant and managing his own basic needs required all of the limited energy he had left. It seemed that there was something he meant to do when the illness had progressed this far, but he couldn't find the strength to remember what it was.

 

"Avon, Tarrant." A scratchy, distant voice sounded in the tent. Avon wondered if he were hallucinating.

 

"Someone there?" he called feebly.

 

"Avon, respond please."

 

Avon frowned. "I am responding. Who's there?"

 

A sparkly light feathered through the darkness outside and two figures materialized in the faint moonlight. "Dayna, Cally," he whispered, suddenly recalling where he was. They weren't wearing protective clothing. "Stay back. We're ill."

 

"It's all right," Cally reassured him as she crouched and entered. "We've taken a vaccine. Quick, Dayna."

 

The younger woman withdrew two syringes from her pouch and passed them inside.

 

Cally administered the injections with smooth efficiency, murmuring soothing nothings as she stabbed first Avon then Tarrant. Next she searched the tent until she found their teleport bracelets, then snapped them on the men's wrists. "Bring us up, Vila," she instructed.

 

***

 

 

"Hello, sleepy." Dayna smiled down on the newly awakened Del Tarrant.

 

Looking around and finding himself in  **Liberator's**  medical unit, Tarrant smiled back.

 

"Something to drink?" Dayna offered, reaching to where a carton of juice was perched on a nearby table. "Cally, he's awake."

 

A second pretty head flanked Tarrant's bed and he gave her a smile too. Dayna pressed a button to reposition the medical couch. It inclined to where Tarrant was half sitting up. She held the juice for him while he sipped it through a straw.

 

Tarrant waited until his thirst was quenched before trying to speak. "You were late," he said, voice as raw as he expected, but at least it worked. "What happened? Is everyone all right?"

 

"We're fine," Cally assured him. "We ran into some pursuit ships that put up quite a fight."

 

" **Liberator**  has a few new dents," Dayna continued. "We could have used your piloting skills." Her face dimpled merrily when Tarrant blushed in response to her compliment.

 

"And Avon's technical expertise would have speeded the repair work," Cally said.

 

"The power drain was extensive." Dayna's eyes misted over, as if the tug of emotional memories was overwhelming her. "We were almost too late."

 

Tarrant patted Dayna's hand and gave her a reassuring smile. "I was worried about you. I knew the delay meant trouble."

 

" _You_  had us worried," Cally returned. "You were very ill, delirious in fact, when we reached Chalize."

 

"I don't know," Vila's voice piped up from the other side of the room where he sat spooning custard to an unappreciative Avon. "I liked him better that way."

 

Tarrant released the straw. "Vila," he said in the most threatening voice he could muster.

 

"Liked him much better," Vila said, grinning happily.

 

"Drink up, Tarrant," Dayna urged when he made no move to retrieve the straw. "You're really lucky to be alive. If Avon hadn't taken care of you..."

 

Tarrant dropped the straw again. "But Avon was ill, too."

 

"Not as seriously as you," Cally told him.

 

A scoffing bark sounded from the next bed. "Instead of conserving his strength to fight the virus, Tarrant insisted on running around in the manner of an interplanetary boy scout. No wonder he collapsed so completely that I was forced to play nursemaid."

 

Tarrant winced and turned his face into the pillow, embarrassed that his activity had ended up making extra work for Avon. He had only intended to help.

 

"Are you in pain?" Dayna asked, picking up a nearby injector.

 

At the same time Cally grabbed a basin and held it under hiss chin. "Throw up in here," she instructed.

 

Humiliated to have called even more attention to himself, Tarrant shook his head. "I'm fine," he said. His overenthusiastic nurses continued to look skeptical. "Really. I'm just tired."

 

Cally tapped Dayna on the arm and gestured to Vila. "I think that's our cue to leave. They both should rest. Just press the link to the flight deck if you need anything."

 

Tarrant reached back and activated the mechanism to lower his bed to a flat position. The room was very quiet and still after the earlier chatter. Too quiet, it seemed. Tarrant rolled over to face Avon. There was something enigmatic about the other man's folded arms and stony, sightless stare.

 

"How do you feel?" Tarrant asked him.

 

"A bit tired."

 

"I can second that. But at least we're alive. I told you we'd be fine."

 

Avon closed his eyes. "So you did."

 

His answers were more meek than Tarrant would have expected. And now, with his eyes shut, he looked so very pale, almost fragile. Tarrant hated to bother him with more conversation but there was a memory teasing at him.

 

"Avon, on the planet... I think I remember..."

 

"You  _think_  you remember?"

 

"Yes. It's the last thing I remember from when we were there. I'm not sure... That is... I must have been very ill at the time."

 

"Even at your best, Tarrant, your thoughts are seldom worth recollecting. And right now they are particularly annoying. You can't even articulate whatever it is you are trying to say. I've already been subjected to enough of your irrational ranting to last a lifetime."

 

"Irrational ranting?"

 

"As Cally said, you were quite out of your head. You even thought I was your mother, among other sentimental persona. I had no idea that you were such a romantic. Now go to sleep or shut up so that I can sleep."

 

"Sorry."

 

***

 

 

Several hours and a long nap later, Avon was feeling quite renewed. He flexed his muscles and squirmed about, taking note that the grinding ache in his head had receded to a more tolerable level. His fever had diminished and his stomach was calm.

 

Taking each movement slowly and carefully, Avon eased up to a sitting position. When that didn't provoke any unpleasant repercussions, he slid carefully from the medical couch. Vila had brought him a robe earlier. He slipped it on over the flimsy gown Cally had insisted he wear--nixing his request for more substantial pajamas--then shuffled over to where Tarrant was peacefully sleeping.

 

The young man looked winsome and innocent in repose, and it took a concentrated effort on Avon's part for him to recall what a consummate irritant Tarrant normally was. With luck, and thanks to his skillful misdirection, Tarrant would hopefully think that their coupling had been part of a fever dream. The fact that the younger man hadn't pursued his questions earlier suggested that the doubt, once planted, would take hold. Avon was counting on that. Because further involvement with his shipmate would not be advisable. Tarrant was too young and romantic. He would expect commitments and words of endearment, the type of relationship that Avon wasn't prepared to experience, not with memories of Anna's betrayal still no fresh. And maybe never again.

 

But despite his firm resolve, Avon had difficulty tearing himself away from the sweet form on the bed. He reached out and lightly brushed his fingers over Tarrant's cheek, then he pulled his hand back with a tinge of regret. What he needed wasn't here.

 

Tightening the sash on his robe, Avon simultaneously secured his tumultuous emotions. After a last glance at Tarrant, he left to go to Cally's cabin.


End file.
